“Oh yes. We’ve known the family for three or four years, and they’ve been here for Christmas parties. She is a beauty, very intelligent too.”
Of course she was. My heart seemed to sink in my chest. “What does she look like?”
“She is tall with a long, graceful neck and a lovely, fair complexion. She is blonde and wears the most beautiful trinkets in her hair to accentuate the color. One Christmas she had a blue rose pinned to her plaits in the back. Her eyes are a very dark blue. You’d almost think they were black until you see her up close.”
“And he admires her?”
“Who wouldn’t? She’s such a capable young woman. Captivating too. She’s run her father’s household since her mother died. Belinda wasn’t yet sixteen.”
“Why is she still unmarried?”
“Christian has been slow footed, to be sure. But he’s matured so much recently. And the war will nudge him to be quick.”
“Perhaps there’s a great difference in age?”
“No, they are contemporaries. Christian is nearing thirty; she is but twenty-five.”
“An equal match in every way, then?”
“Yes. And he will make it. But you’ve eaten nothing. Are you really all right? Should I call for the doctor?”
“No, Missus Livingston, I am fine. I just want tea for now. May I have another cup?”
Alone in my room, I reviewed what Missus Livingston had told me and turned the facts over and over in my mind. Then I recalled what I had felt only the previous evening—the hope, the sense of joy and possibility. I had to admit I had indulged in my fondness for Mr. Colchester even longer—almost a year! I was mortified. How had I duped myself so well?
To think that I could influence him, please him, amuse him—I blushed with shame. And even if he did have some interest in me, what could it be beyond mentoring me as though I were a pet? He could never marry me, a penniless girl of mixed blood. I could barely hold that sentence in my head. And he would be well aware of these differences, would never have intended to inspire my affection. I obviously wasn’t and so had read him all wrong. Madness! That must be my excuse. Madness and loneliness. God, how pitiful!
The blonde features of Belinda Chamberlain haunted my thoughts. I walked up and down my room, berating myself. I stopped in front of the mirror and surveyed my image. I wore a simple dress of linsey-woolsey, not unlike the dress Aunt Nancy Lynne had once made for me. My hair, which tended to look more brown than red in the winter, was pulled back into a plain bun at the nape of my neck. Nothing obscured the freckles dotting the sides of my face unless I wore a bonnet. Missus Livingston had called Miss Chamberlain capable. I envisioned a strong young woman, not unlike the abolitionists I had met in Philadelphia and in New York. A beauty who could lead people, who could give orders in a household and have them followed to the letter. The perfect partner for Mr. Colchester. I could see her living under the roof of Fortitude Mansion, hosting parties when they were in residence, and accompanying him on his travels to New York or even to Europe.
I had been Jean Bébinn’s daughter. Now I was a simple schoolteacher with few friends and no prospects. I would always be a stranger no matter where I went. This thought made me open the drawer of my bureau and hold the stone from Catalpa Valley in my hand. Here was another split, for the ground the stone had come from would soon be no longer a part of the country in which I stood. I allowed myself a few tears. If I’d ever held the tiniest hope of seeing Petite Bébinn, its small bright candle had been snuffed out. I slipped the stone into my pocket so I could reach for it and its consolation when I needed it.
Days passed, and Mr. Colchester did not return. Soon it was a week, then ten days. Missus Livingston didn’t seem concerned, and I tried to imitate her attitude. But my disappointment increased with every hour that slipped by without word from him. I tried to tamp it down by reminding myself that Mr. Colchester’s movements had nothing to do with me. I repeated these words to myself:
“You are a schoolteacher. He is your employer. You have, as long as you do your job well, a right to his respect and kind treatment, nothing more. Be grateful you have that and be content.”
I did this, but I also found myself considering how I might leave Lower Knoll. It was a broken notion—where could I go during this unrest, when the Fugitive Slave Act was still enforced stiffly in most areas? I didn’t know where I would be safe.
I continued to teach my students. One day Jelly was helping me put the classroom in order after lessons were over. Her wide dark eyes seemed to be examining me as she took a small stack of books from my hands.
“Miss Bébinn, are you sad?”
I smiled weakly. “Now, Jelly, why would you say such a thing?”
“I don’t know. You just been different after the fire. If you’re sad, it might be my fault.”
“Oh, Jelly, no, no. I am not sad, and nothing is your fault.” But since the child had brought up the fire, I asked, “Do you remember anything about it?”
“I was sitting reading like I always do. It grew dark, and I was gonna leave because I had no candle. Then I heard a noise.”
“What was it?”
“I don’t know—sounded like somebody outside. Footsteps.” Jelly shrugged. “I didn’t want to get in trouble. That’s when I went under the stairs.”
“Did you see who it was?”
“No. Didn’t see anyone. It got smoky and I got scared.” She paused, and her lower lip quivered.
I put my hands on her shoulders and kissed her on top of her head. “You’re fine now,” I told her. “Don’t think about it anymore.”
Mr. Colchester’s absence stretched past two weeks. February approached. Rumors that the Southern states would form a confederacy floated north. Finally he wrote to Missus Livingston. She read the letter during our breakfast. I drank my tea and pretended to be occupied with my own thoughts. The letter wasn’t for me.
“It is just as I thought,” Missus Livingston said.
“Oh?” I refilled my cup and helped myself to some eggs.
“He will be here in three days with all the people I’ve told you about. We shall have a full house of it.” She left the table swiftly to follow whatever directions Mr. Colchester had sent.
Without her there to encourage me to eat, I allowed the tea and eggs to grow cold. He would return. He would return and bring with him the woman he intended to marry. I had three days to prepare for the confrontation of this reality. I didn’t know how to be, whether I could even look him in the eye. My fingers trembled. I twisted a napkin in my hands to steady them.
Then, a small miracle—it was like my mind came to me. Papa used to speak of moments like this when it was like the world calmed down and reason walked in the door. I felt it—another version of me, sitting down next to me. She talked plenty of reason. It sounded like this:
They will not notice you. Remember, you belong in the village, and you will live there, at some point, in a cottage near the wood.
Who are you now? A schoolteacher. You only need care about your students.
Did you have his affection before? No. Do you have it now? No. Will you have it in the future? No. Nothing in your circumstances has changed or will change. You are the same. What is there to mourn?